


Free as Fuckbirds

by SelkieWife



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Edging, F/F, FitzBirch, FitzBirch-Centric, I may be using incorrect French in this, Lesbian Sex, POV Nancy Birch, Smut, Tupping Tuesday, Vaginal Fingering, which is so stupid and yet so brave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26385898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelkieWife/pseuds/SelkieWife
Summary: Fitzbirch one shot for Tupping Tuesday of Harlots Week 2020.Dedicated to Hailbabel, my amazing Isabella RP partner on tumblr, who wrote in a headcanon that Isabella "has a pair of garters embroidered with a naughty French phrase. These were a 'gift' from herself to Nancy." I've been trying to guess what that phrase might be since she wrote that and this is my response to that headcanon. This fic is also very inspired by Hailbabel's excellent drabble on tumblr, "Bonding." The phrase "pretty little fuckbird" comes from an adorable kinky letter from James Joyce to his wife, Nora Barnacle.
Relationships: Nancy Birch/Isabella Fitzwilliam
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14
Collections: Harlots Week 2020





	Free as Fuckbirds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hailbabel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailbabel/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Bonding](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/681262) by hailbabel. 



“I bought you a present… but you’ll have to find it,” Isabella calls from her bed chambers as Nancy enters the sitting room for their customary tea. 

“You sly spider,” Nancy says, though she is already grinning with anticipation. “I told ya- no more gifts.” In truth, Isabella’s attentions and gifts touch her as fiercely as they fluster her. 

“I know,” comes Isabella’s voice again. “I’ve been very disobedient.”

Something about that word coming out of Isabella's mouth causes a sharp desire to swell in Nancy, leaving her a bit breathless and caught off guard. Yet nothing could have prepared her for the vision that fills her eyes when Isabella sweeps into the room, dressed from head to heal in Nancy’s own clothes, complete with her old cocked hat and the birch rod Nancy helped her make the day she first taught her to wield it. 

Isabella’s hair, usually higher than the heavens, is tied back simply with a black silk ribbon, her curls cascading loosely around her ample cleavage. Nancy can’t quite pry her gaze away from the pale heaving breasts nearly spilling out of the tight stays. Instead of donning breeches, Isabella is wearing skirts of red and cerulean which bring out the deep blue of her eyes and make them shine as bright as meteors.

“Oh, Bella…” Nancy breaths. There was no help for it. She knows her heart (and quim) will forever dance to the tune of Isabella’s desires. For someone who requires utmost control, Nancy feels herself quite undone by Isabella, who is as enticing as she is alarming. She takes a breath to steady herself before allowing a devilish smirk to play across her face.

“Is this the gift then- you prig all my clothes?”

Isabella answers her smirk in kind as she glides across the room and drapes herself on the chaise. 

“I told you,” she says cloyingly, “you have to find it.”

Nancy feigns a groan, but it is deep and guttural and filled with need.

“Silly, dove,” she grunts as she crosses the floor to the chaise, “you will vex me sore.”

“Not before you fuck me sore,” comes the smooth reply.

“The pure, wanton, filth that comes out of that quality mouth…” Nancy laughs as Isabella’s mouth blooms before her like a luscious rose. Nancy’s own mouth is now close enough to part the petals of those insolent lips and gently slip her tongue inside them to taste her sweetness. But she lingers, right on the precipice, as she draws her hand firmly up Isabella’s bodice. She pauses, as if going in for a deep embrace, but then dips lower, trailing slow, soft, teasing kisses around Isabella’s pulse and collar bone. 

“Hmmm… it’s not here it seems,” she says as she continues to trail her lips up Isabella’s long neck, delighting in the needy moan she is able to elicit from her.

Splaying her fingers apart she places her hand firmly against Isabella’s tight stays as she begins to trail her kisses downward. Isabella’s breathes heavily and her heaving cleavage rises and falls, making Nancy almost dizzy with beauty of it. 

“Could the gift be located between these two lovely teats then?” The laces are located in the front, so Nancy gives the stays a cheeky tug, releasing the plump breasts into her sure hands. Isabella gasps as Nancy steals her mouth and kisses back with vigor. 

Nancy rises to straddle Isabella where she lies against the chaise, the birch rod falling to the floor. Isabella’s lips are hot against hers and her hands slide down to clutch the curve of Nancy’s bottom. Nancy grinds her knee into Isabella’s skirts, producing a shudder from her lady that causes her own thighs to tremble in response. 

She leans back so she can see Isabella’s face as she slowly begins to lift her skirts. Isabella’s eyes are dim with lust and she is smiling as Nancy bunches her skirts up, sliding her hand to feel the slippery heat between her thighs. Isabella gasps as Nancy slides her finger into her drenched slit.

“Say it, Dove,” Nancy prompts, “beg for it…”

“Please…” Isabella moans. “Tup me Nance, tup me..” Her tremulous voice almost pushes Nancy over the edge but she withdraws her hand from Isabella’s delicious heat, causing Isabella to let out a frustrated sigh.

Nancy smirks as she dips her head beneath Isabella’s skirts, kissing up her legs until she reaches Isabella’s cunt. She gently circles her tongue around her pearl, teasingly, causing Isabella to moan, deep and needful. She suddenly draws her head back to smile broadly at Isabella.

Isabella’s hips rise in frustration, bucking against the empty space Nancy’s tongue left. 

“Patience, love, I still need to find that gift…”

“Nancy Birch,” Isabella admonishes between pants, “you… teasing… tart.”

Nancy barks a laugh at Isabella’s protests and sets about seeking that gift. It doesn’t take long at all for her to find it. There, tied around Isabella’s pale blue silk stockings is a garter she has not seen before, red, embroidered with little white birds and writing she can’t quite make out. Her hand goes toward it, but Isabella takes from above.

“Ah, ah, ah… you have to capture it with your mouth.”

 _Cockish moll_ Nancy thinks to herself, but does as she is bid, using her teeth to pull the ribbons apart and pulling the rest of the garter down Isabella’s long legs. The action feels deliciously lewd. Once she has the garter off she takes it in her hands to better read the embroidered writing.

“That French?” Nancy asks with a little smirk. She knows it is. She wants to hear Isabella say it.

“Yes…” and suddenly Isabella looks shy, “ ‘mon de joli petite putain oiseau.’ It says ‘my pretty little fuck bird,’ well, ‘fucking bird’ because that’s how the translation came out. It might not be an exact translation. I’m not sure the French have that turn of phrase. Do you remember when you called me that?” She asks, coloring up as bright as a poppy. _Oh… Nancy did._

“I’d tied your pretty wings back so you couldn’t spread them and fly away,” she nods.

“And you spread something else if I remember,” Isabella responds warmly. 

Nancy climbs up Isabella’s body to her lips. 

“Say it again, in French?”

Isabella lowers her eyes, a sensational little smile growing round her lips. 

“‘Mon de joli petite putain oiseau,’” she whispers, demurely.

Nancy slides her hand back underneath her skirts. 

“Again,” she says as she gently spreads the petals of her quim.

“Mon de joli petite putain oiseau,” she whispers again. It comes out breathy and tremulous.

Nancy takes a finger and circles it around lightly around her clit. “So... you swiped my clothes _and_ got me another gift… Do you know the punishment for this disobedience, Lady Isabella?” 

Isabella’s eyes widen.

“It’s to be soundly tupped,” she says as she sinks her fingers into Isabella’s quim, finding the spot that makes her writhe and release. 

The tea and the rest of the afternoon are both forgotten as they lie in each other's arms in disarray, delighting in each other, sated and spent, a crow and her dove, free as fuckbirds. 


End file.
